


want you to stay

by elizaham8957



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, F/M, Jealousy, Mutual Pining, Post 4x06, someone give these kids a break, they deserve happiness okay Jeff why did you make them suffer this way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-24
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2019-06-15 08:55:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15409458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizaham8957/pseuds/elizaham8957
Summary: Staring at that board, studying the words "the benefactor: ?" written out in Stiles’s messy scrawl, Lydia realizes how long it’s been since she was here. Half a year ago, she would kick off her shoes and lie down on his bed like this was her second home; she had lost track of how much time the two of them would spend poring over mysteries, leafing through the bestiary, figuring it out together. But the room she’s standing in now— she feels like she’s intruding in the space of a complete stranger, someone she barely knows.





	want you to stay

**Author's Note:**

  * For [my_inked_asterism](https://archiveofourown.org/users/my_inked_asterism/gifts).



> Hello friends! Well, I was planning on posting this for the last day of Stydiaweek 2k18, but then I slept all day on Friday instead so. (My excuse was I got drunk and sang karaoke to Mamma Mia the night before, but I know that's a lame excuse. I am sorry.) 
> 
> Anyways, this was written for Giulia, who won my 400 follower fic giveaway on tumblr that I had FOREVER ago-- see also how I now have 500 followers because I took such a long time to write this. I am the worst and Giulia is the best, because she gave me an AWESOME prompt and was super patient waiting for me to finally get my act together and write it. I hope you enjoy this, girl!! 
> 
> I am stilesssolo on tumblr and twitter if you want to chat, and I'd love to know what you think. Enjoy!!

Lydia’s ears are still ringing when they get back to Stiles’s house. 

Meredith’s words are still reverberating in her mind, her voice trapped in her skull, bouncing back and forth, back and forth; she can hear the panic in the other banshee’s tone rise, until the sound becomes so loud that she screams, and Lydia’s eyes screw shut at the volume of the memory. 

_ I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know.  _

“Lydia,” Stiles says, and she looks up, eyes wide, jerked from her thoughts. She realizes she’s frozen on his front steps— he’s standing right in front of her, one hand resting on the open door, looking at her with concern in his eyes, like he can tell what’s trapped inside her head right now.

“Come inside,” he says, voice gentle, and she nods slowly, following him into his house. 

He leads her up to his room silently, opening the door for her. The first thing she sees when she walks inside is his murder board, although he's upgraded since last time she was here— it’s an actual  _ board  _ now, not just a section of his wall, plastered with pictures and his chicken-scratch writing, red string weaving together all the different clues into a tangled web of mysteries they still have yet to solve. 

Staring at that board, studying the words  _ the benefactor: ?  _ written out in Stiles’s messy scrawl, Lydia realizes how long it’s been since she was  _ here.  _ Half a year ago, she would kick off her shoes and lie down on his bed like this was her second home; she had lost track of how much time the two of them would spend poring over mysteries, leafing through the bestiary, figuring it out together. But the room she’s standing in now— she feels like she’s intruding in the space of a complete stranger, someone she barely knows. 

Stiles moves ahead of her, hurriedly clearing off a space at his desk around his laptop, and Lydia’s heart jumps into her throat at the sight of one of Malia’s jackets slung over the back of his chair. 

She blinks, determined not to show how shaken she is by the sight of something as simple as a piece of  _ clothing.  _ But that jacket is a clear reminder of what she already knows— this space isn’t shared with her anymore. There is a girl who can kick off her shoes and sprawl across Stiles’s bed like it’s her own, and that girl is not Lydia. 

“Hey,” Stiles says, his eyes on her again, and Lydia looks up, hoping to _god_ he can’t sense the jealousy and bitterness simmering just below the surface. He can generally read her so well, but lately— lately, she’s beginning to wonder if he’s forced all his knowledge of her from his mind. Today with Stiles, going to Eichen, talking to Meredith, working on getting the last cipher key— it feels like it did before the nogitsune, before Allison died and Stiles ignored Lydia for _months._ She has missed this _so_ much, spending time with him, solving mysteries, that joking banter between them that felt easier than breathing. But then Stiles had been possessed, and Lydia’s best friend had died, and she had fallen apart by herself, wanting more than anything for Stiles to help pick up her pieces and breaking apart even more when he turned the cold shoulder towards her. 

Sometimes she thinks back to those days, when the only thing she wanted more than Allison to be alive was for Stiles to just come  _ back  _ to her. 

“You’re still bleeding,” Stiles says, his brow pinched in concern, and Lydia’s hand drifts back up to her ear, her fingers coming away wet and shining with her blood. 

“Hold on, I’ll be right back,” Stiles says, and he’s rushing out of the room before Lydia can even respond. The room suddenly feels suffocating without him here, and she feels like such an  _ intruder  _ in a space that she used to be so welcomed in. 

Stiles returns barely a minute later with a washcloth, water still glinting on his hands, Lydia’s eyes drawn to those long, sinewy fingers. “C’mere,” he says, soft, and hesitantly, she walks over to him, sits down next to him on the side of his bed. 

“Let me see,” he requests, voice gentle, and Lydia can’t help but listen to him, turning her head to the side. Slowly, his hand raises to her head, sweeping her hair over her shoulder, and she can feel her heart jump at the brush of his fingers against her neck, her pulse fluttering right below his fingertips. 

“Does it hurt?” Stiles asks, his voice low, almost strained. Lydia pauses, contemplating, because it  _ doesn’t  _ hurt anymore, she realizes. Sometime since she’d walked into Stiles’s room, her ears stopped ringing, Meredith’s voice faded out into the background whispers that always occupy her mind, indistinguishable from the rest of the white noise buzzing inside her brain. 

“No,” she answers, careful not to move her head. Stiles’s fingers hover over her jawline, his thumb brushing the shell of her ear, and she can feel her body shiver, falling apart at his gentle touch. 

She hopes Stiles doesn’t notice how she seems to melt under his palms. 

“Good,” he responds, raising the washcloth to her face, gently dabbing at the congealed blood still running down the edge of her cheek. She stands perfectly still, trying to control how erratic her heartbeat has grown at the feel of his fingers, how gently he’s touching her, like she might break at any second. 

She tries not to let herself imagine his fingers running over her skin for very different reasons than their current situation. 

His hands brush her skin again, the washcloth warm against her cheek, and she inhales sharply, finding that aforementioned fantasy harder and harder to push down. She doesn’t let herself look at Stiles, because she knows if she does, she might not be able to take this anymore. 

The fact of the matter is, she spent all of last fall trying to push away thoughts of a dirty locker room floor, dappled light spilling onto the boy sitting across from her, his eyes shining absolute pure gold as he looked at her like she was his entire world. She’s tried to convince herself that kiss meant nothing, that it was a last resort, a necessity, absolutely nothing personal. But the longer she’s tried to force herself to believe those lies, the easier it’s become to realize that despite her internal protests, that kiss meant  _ everything.  _

It doesn’t matter now, though, because now Stiles is kissing another girl, and he doesn’t need Lydia anymore. She made him wait too long, took too much time to come around to the realization that what she wanted all along was _ right  _ in front of her, and now Stiles has a girlfriend, and she’s left out in the cold by herself. 

“There,” he whispers, and Lydia turns her head as he lowers the washcloth, all the blood cleaned off of her face. Her eyes meet his, fiery in the low light filtering in from the window, and Lydia can feel her heartbeat pick up, hammering against her sternum in a constant rhythm that sounds a lot to her like it’s chanting  _ want, want, want.  _

Their faces are too close, their noses inches apart, and Lydia can’t help the way her eyes flick down to his lips, then to the base of his throat, his pulse jumping erratically there. She’s not really sure who leans in first, her or Stiles, but suddenly they're even closer, the air between them electric, the tension so heavy Lydia thinks she could reach out and grab it if she really wanted to. 

Stiles’s forehead rests against hers, his nose just barely nudging her cheek, and Lydia can feel her heart speed up even more, his breath fanning across her skin. The last time she was this close to him was that same fated day, in the boys’ locker room, when she had kissed him and opened her eyes and  _ everything  _ had changed, her heart kicking into overdrive as she looked at Stiles like the sun had just come out after months and  _ months  _ of darkness. 

“Stiles,” she whispers, her voice barely audible over the sound of her pounding heart, and he hums, one of his hands still lingering on her face, cupping her jaw. His eyes are closed, long lashes casting shadows over his cheeks, and she watches as he swallows, practically hearing the rapid pace of his heartbeat echoing through the silent room. She can feel his fingers thread through her hair, and her eyes slide closed as she breathes in the scent of him, wanting so,  _ so  _ badly to kiss him. 

She dares herself to believe for a moment that maybe, he wants to kiss her too. 

But no. He doesn’t— he can’t. He’s with Malia, and Lydia is too late, and this is just some fantasy she’s projecting on him, not something that’s really true. Stiles has a girlfriend— a beautiful new girlfriend who sleeps in his bed and leaves her clothes in his room, who holds his hand and kisses him in the hallways, who gets to spend her time wrapped up in his arms and laughing and joking and  _ being  _ with him. 

Lydia doesn’t get any of those things, because she was too scared of what she was feeling towards Stiles until it was too late. 

She pulls away from him gently, keeping her eyes closed, because she’s  _ determined  _ not to cry. She can feel the jealousy pooling in her stomach, hot and angry, the despair and panic that she missed her chance and may  _ never  _ get it back now. She is so used to living in a world where she is the center of Stiles Stilinski’s universe, and now that position is filled by someone else, and she doesn’t know how to cope with it. 

Regardless of how jealous she is of Malia, she’s not going to sabotage this for her. She’s not going to kiss Stiles and ruin everything he has with the other girl, despite the  _ overwhelming  _ desire to do just that. Because Lydia knows it’s her own fault for taking too long, for realizing how she feels way too late. 

When she finally opens her eyes, Stiles is still hovering there, his eyes open again, and her heart  _ squeezes  _ at the expression on his face. His eyebrows are scrunched together, lips pursed in a way that conveys how guilty he feels for even  _ considering  _ what they were just about to do. 

But his eyes.  _ His eyes.  _ They look exactly like they did that day in the locker room, big and wide and clear, and Lydia can see the emotion in them, the overwhelming love and admiration and  _ want.  _ Lydia’s heart thumps, because maybe— maybe she wasn’t too late after all. 

He blinks, and the expression is gone. 

She can feel her throat close up as he sits back, eyes cast downward, looking  _ anywhere  _ but at her. She stands, feeling awkward, that tentative friendship they had started to regain earlier completely lost. Wordlessly, she moves over to his desk, the laptop with the deadpool in front of her. They have a job to do, and the pack is counting on them. 

“We need to solve that last cipher key,” she says, voice low, and Stiles finally looks at her again, his expression unreadable. 

She opens up the laptop, and tries to ignore the abysmal feeling of her heart breaking. 


End file.
